


The Blood of Those Lost

by Kwiekweg



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Magic, Elves, M/M, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 07:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18177704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kwiekweg/pseuds/Kwiekweg
Summary: Based on the Dragon Age universe, a young apprentice mage in Tevinter discovers his idyllic world shattered by his master's endless bid for power.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1  
  
He remembered that night every time he closed his eyes. He would never forget for as long as he lived.

The air was crisp and fresh. The breath of winter began to heave the first heavy sigh of cool breeze into the fading autumn. He had held Quentin tight for warmth as they watched the sun disappear behind the mountain, dyeing the landscape with reds and golds before its glory slowly faded. He remembered his scent and the heat of his shoulder under his light coat. The memory played itself over and over in his mind.

"Do you think it will always be this way?" Quentin had laughed, his voice tinkled like a bell. Mahanon could hear the smile on his lover's face, although his own was buried in the young man's neck.

He wished that this single moment had lasted forever, had stretched somehow, and engulfed and overtaken what came next.  
Quentin had taken his hands from his shoulders and spun around to face him. His eyes were lit up like a small boy on Christmas.

He was just a boy... oh Maker! They had both been just boys, with the dew of youth still wet upon their brow.

"Now Quentin." He had said sternly. He had always been the serious one. "We need to be getting back. We've probably already been missed." It was a valid concern. Although Quentin could expect a fierce switching from the kitchen mistress, a hard-eyed woman who ran her portion of the household like a prison, Mahanon could expect much worse from his master for shirking his studies. Particularly on this night, as the magister he apprenticed under had been experimenting with new theory and had been studying late into the night. He required strict attendance and diligence from the apprentices, and his already brusque demeanor had been growing more volatile the more nights spent in his study poring over ancient tomes and manuscripts.

Mahanon remembered clearly the way the impish grin slid from Quentin's face as he pulled his hand from the boy's roughened palm. It returned just as quickly. "We always have tomorrow." He gushed, "Give me one last kiss and we can go back." Their lips met, with Quentin's hands buried in his hair. Mahanon pulled away, otherwise they would have been there all night. They should have been. They should have stayed out on that balcony with the cool air and the dying sunset and the smell of his hair and his thrumming warmth under his collar and his boyish face... they should have stayed all night.

"Give me one last kiss and we can go back."

"Give me one last kiss..."

"Give me..."

The words echoed hollow in his mind for eternity.

"It’s foolish to still be here. We need to go back." Mahanon said gruffly and straightened his coat with a sour look.

"Give me..."

"Give me one last kiss..."

Mahanon turned in his bed roll, as if he could turn his back on the memory that burned itself deeply behind his eyes. He stared into the darkness beyond the low fire, and the darkness seemed to stare back at him.

"...one last kiss and we can go back."

The memory continued to play. That endless song that played relentlessly in his head, finishing only to begin again anew.

He had returned to his duties that night. He had been grateful that his master had been so preoccupied that his absence had gone unnoticed. He moved silently around Maestro Antoni, picking up books that had been read and discarded on the heavy library table. He was about to call a servant to bring the master tea, when Ser Antoni stood suddenly, sending papers fluttering to the ground and upsetting the inkwell. Mahanon bent to pick it up, before the quickly spreading ink destroyed the papers.

Antoni's hard eye fell upon him, and momentarily his blood ran cold through his veins. "You! Elf!" He commanded. Mahanon felt a wave of annoyance. He had worked directly under Maestro Antoni for two years, and the man had never bothered to learn his name, even though he was one of the most gifted young mages under his tutelage. His talents weren't enough to overshadow his elven heritage in some eyes, particularly not those of the elite like his master. "Go to the kitchens and fetch a servant to bring the tea." He stopped for a moment, as if lost in thought. "Don’t send the old woman, I need someone up here who is young and strong." It didn't seem an odd request at the time. The Maestro was old and often needed assistance carrying heavy books and materials.

Mahanon dashed down to the kitchen, where he saw the mistress checking stock, two young scullery maids washing a large pot, and Quentin perched rather gingerly on the edge of the hearth, peeling potatoes. He had gotten the switch after all, it appeared. He beamed up at Mahanon, who flushed slightly but ignored him to call to the mistress of the kitchen. "Mum! The Maestro needs a man to carry for him and some tea if you could." The kitchen mistress wiped her hands on her apron and glared. He didn't suppose she had any other facial expressions. If she had, he had never seen them.

"All the big men have gone out back to split wood. Take the boy. He's good enough for the master's purposes I suppose." With a sniff, she turned away and back to taking inventory of the turnips. Mahanon met Quentin's eyes, which were twinkling with mischief. He cleared his throat. "Well enough mum. I'll send him back when the Maestro is through with him." His courtesy met with a grunt of assent from the churlish woman. Turning on his heel, he exited the kitchen into the long stone hall and began to ascend the staircase to the library wing. He knew that Quentin would want him to wait in the hall to steal a kiss, but they had already risen the ire of the mistress tonight with their procrastination, he didn't want to catch the same from the Maestro, especially with the darkening mood the old mage had been harboring of late.

He ascended the stairs and went to busy himself clearing the table of Antoni's mess. He could hear the old man muttering to himself in the antechamber. Soon Quentin entered with the tea tray and shot Mahanon a rueful glance. Mahanon had the grace to feel a twinge of guilt. He'd make it up to him later, in another darkened corridor, or in a hidden closet somewhere in the tower.

Maestro Antoni burst in from the antechamber, startling the two young men out of their shared moment. "You there, servant! Come with me!" He pointed at Quentin and brusquely turned back into the chamber. Quentin shrugged and gave Mahanon one more glance before following the old mage.

Mahanon still remembered the way that one errant strand of his lover’s black hair was curled crisply over the tip of one pointed ear, and he reached his hand up to tuck it away before leaving the library after their master.

It wasn't long before the screams began.

Mahanon looked up from his work with a start. A cold chill travelled up his spine like electricity. That scream belonged to Quentin. He leapt up and ran for the antechamber door and threw it open. Ser Antoni was standing in front of a bloodied table, and on that table lay the prone body of Quentin torn from stem to stern, the life already left from his eyes. The screaming seemed to come from somewhere else, and Mahanon vaguely wondered how Quentin could still be screaming if he was dead. It took what seemed like ages for him to realize they were his own screams.

The old mage turned. His hands burned with a magic Mahanon had never seen before. Is this what he had been doing? This new experiment in magic his master had been working day and night for? His face glowed in the green light reflecting from the energy he held in his bloodied palms.  
"No!!!" Mahanon croaked from his burning throat. His own magic welled up in his chest like a fiery tide and if by instinct he fired a weak stream of fire at his master standing in the widening pool of his lover's blood. Ser Antoni easily deflected his student's efforts to avenge Quentin, with the ease of brushing away a pesky fly.

"The power I have attained tonight," a voice roared from the old man’s chest with a strength unexpected from such a feeble old body, "is greater than you will ever know."

Then it was all over but the screaming.

Mahanon turned to face the dying embers of his campfire once more, and the memories of that night began again from the sunset. He would get no sleep tonight.

_"Give me one last kiss and we can go back."_

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
It was a warzone in the tower since Quentin's gruesome murder, and Mahanon was witness to all of it. The servants tried to move through the halls unseen and unnoticed. More of them went missing daily. Brothers, sisters, aunts, fathers, everyone had had someone close to them stolen away. A palpable sense of fear hung in the corridors like a low mist, choking voices to a whisper. Parents quietly sent their children away, buried under hay or laundry in rickety wagons that trundled away never to be seen again.

Mahanon knew where they all ended up. Ser Antoni had converted a wing of the expansive library to a makeshift laboratory where their broken bodies fueled his unending quest for ultimate power. Blood magic was against magical treatise, but as is true in many lands laws typically only apply to the poor and the powerless and Antoni was neither. The life of a slave in Tevinter was worth next to nothing and the household was powerless to resist as their numbers dwindled at an alarming rate.

The other apprentices were no help. There was none interested in convincing the magister to stop his grisly experiments. Most of them were human, and many were the sons of the upper strata who had not the time or inclination to guide the magical proclivities of their progeny. It was an honor to be under the tutelage of such a powerful teacher, but they too, out of discomfort of seeing such blatantly illegal acts (of course, it was the rule breaking and not the wholesale slaughter of elves that offended their sensibilities,) slowly started disappearing as well, although using letters and favors instead of laundry carts.

Mahanon remembered how proud his mother had been when the magister had called upon him for apprenticeship. It was a chance for their family, barely out of chains themselves, to do something aside from mucking stables and darning socks for a master who was barely aware of their existence at best. He recalled the way that he had been dressed in his finest clothes and how his mother had slicked down his unruly hair with cow grease before being sent to apprentice under one of the most powerful mages in the nation. It had been such a proud day.

That was ten years ago now, four since he had swung the doors open to reveal the torn body of his lover upon his master's table and Ser Antoni filled with the power that his lifeblood had bestowed. He remembered nothing more from that night, but he carried two physical scars that told him the night hadn't ended there... one at the crook of his inner thigh, and one across his neck. One day he might come to know how and why he had lived, but today was not that day.

It had been four excruciating years. He had to look upon Quentin's murderer and serve his whims every day of that four years, and his hatred grew with each passing hour. Every experiment that Antoni tried, there would be more bodies to carry... more screams to silence... more wounds to close if they were salvageable... more agony to end as silently and peacefully as possible in this house of horrors... and Mahanon knew them all. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that he would have to kill Ser Antoni or die trying.

Ser Antoni was one of the most powerful mages in the country, even more so now that he had crossed the line into the realm of blood magic, and Mahanon was merely an apprentice, relegated to scrubbing the blood from the tiles in the study. He was as helpless as a spring lamb in the jaws of a hungry wolf. He studied late into the night after his duties were done, and the rest of the tower had fallen silent... but it wasn't enough.

One night, the magister had finished his brutal practice. He was attempting new paths, and the collateral amongst the servants had been great. Mahanon went in to do his duty and clean up the inevitable mess that was left behind. He couldn't leave the task to the sculleries, not when so much of the blood was from their own kin... not when he took the blame for being too weak to stop Ser Antoni. No, this responsibility was his.

Mahanon entered the room. His soft soled boots sticking slightly to the floor tacky with blood. As he went to carry the rags, he heard a soft moaning from a darkened corner. Startled, he peered into the darkness. It was one of the kitchen maids. She had been there that night when Ser Antoni had beckoned Quentin upstairs to his death. She had been cleaning pots with her sister who was already gone. He approached her.  
She lay in a crumpled heap, propped up against the wall in the corner. The bloody marks told Mahanon that she had dragged herself from the table to this place in a last desperate attempt to make her own decisions about where she would die. He knelt next to her but halted when he saw the panic flutter into her eyes.

"You!" She hissed in a cracking voice, as she lifted a weakening hand to fend him off. He accepted her rejection of him, he deserved it. He calmly dipped the rag in his bucket of water and softly wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. She panted heavily, the effort of her movement causing her agony and the blood flow from her wounds redoubled to create a growing puddle on the tiles beneath her. Catching her breath, she aimed more of her vitriol at the young mage, "You think you're so much better than the rest of us. But your ears are as pointed as mine, and eventually it will be you who lays here... choking on your own blood!"

Mahanon looked at the floor, watching the blood spread and slowly follow the line of grout under his knee. He then looked up and met her fevered eye. "I should have been the first one." Their eyes locked and she held his piercing gaze with her glassy, unfocused look until she grunted heavily and winced with pain, her body wracked with agony. The maid's body was a network of slashes, sharp and perfect as if done with a surgeon's scalpel. Her chest was open and through cracked ribs he could see the movement of her heart beating weakly. There was no saving her, even if his magic was stronger.

This should have been him. He should have been there in that room to shield Quentin with his body. It should have been him torn asunder on that table in this room in this house of horrors. He should have stolen that one last kiss in the stairwell and spilled the tray of tea that was meant for his master, the dark stain spreading on the tiles like so much blood.

"Stop it!" The hiss of the maid's voice brought him back to the present. His head shot up as she captured his bright tear rimmed eyes with hers, glassy and desperate.

"Wha..?"

"Stop it!" She hissed again. "It’s too much. Pain. You need to end it!"

His mouth stood agape, he looked at his hands already stained with blood, so much blood. He knew now what she was asking, but he didn't know...

"FUCKING STOP IT YOU PRIG!" using the last of her strength to spit in his face. He felt her spittle on his cheek and made no move to wipe it away, it burned like a brand into his skin. "...prove for once in your miserable life that you aren't just this pitiful tool of the magister.  
End it, you shite."

A calm came over him. He knew. He straightened his body and felt the flow of energy gathering around him... where? How? What to...?

He directed the energy to focus on the weakening flow of blood that was seeping from her chest. For a moment, he was shocked by the sheer amount of power. The blood focused and redoubled the energy, like mirrors inside a telescope designed to search the deepest echelons of the heavens... he had never felt such power. For a moment he understood the drunkenness in which his master reveled in the energy he drew from the blood of his dying servants, and almost as quickly the self-loathing backlashed from his ecstasy and almost made him drop the flow of magic like gripping a pan hot out of the oven. Instead he gripped tighter and felt the burn of the magic he was holding. His years of careful study made it possible for him to refine the flows into threads as pointed and sharp as needles. He grasped her hand in his, and she squeezed his palm and nodded, her eyes not letting his go. There was no absolution in that accusatory gaze, nor did he want it. He directed the threads of blood magic into the chambers of her weakened heart. It beat once... twice... and was silent. He held on to her hand for several minutes after it had grown lax, and then stood up to continue his duties.

He knew now what he had to do. It would mean his death, but if the Maker smiled upon elves even a little... he would take Ser Antoni with him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3   
  
The drudgery was a non-issue. Mahanon welcomed mindless tasks, as it was the only time in which he wasn't hyper focused on his plan to take down the magister Ser Antoni in what was guaranteed to be a suicide. The sweeping and mopping and carrying stacks of books was mind-numbingly dull and he liked it that way. Since the night that he had ended the scullery maid's life in an act of compassion (her name was Emilé her name was Emilé her name was Emilé...) his efforts of study had redoubled upon itself. There was no way that he could bend to failure, no matter how inevitable it seemed. He never could sleep, not since Quentin, instead he spent that time in the library wing bent over heavy tomes, while the candles burned themselves to nubs and sputtered out.

Thoughts of Quentin and his friendly open smile, his endless optimism, and smooth unmarked skin permeated his mind. He was constantly at unrest and often endlessly paced his quarters at night battling his own mind. He had played and replayed that night again and again in his head like a whip against his back, tearing at his psyche. Although it was not always horror. At times, it was heat and tangled bedclothes and grasping hands and searching mouths... but those memories were even worse than the nightmares. He emerged from these thoughts with sweaty anguish, torn between the heat of living and the icy cold of death and open staring eyes. There was no end to his torment. He was a man consumed, and he was consuming himself from within.

He couldn't close his eyes lest these images return, so he threw himself into study. He went days without speaking. The terror was gone, but the coldness that remained was like the coldness that seeps slowly in once the last breath is taken. He was tired all the time, but barely noticed. His time taken by study, when it wasn't taken in the service of the man who had murdered Quentin. His abilities grew to a level that he never thought possible, and the boy of moderate talent who was shipped off with the mere hope of escaping a life of drudgery, had tirelessly become the most promising apprentice mage in the entire province... perhaps in the country. There was none that knew this, least of all himself. He lived in the looming shadow of Ser Antoni, and in the depths of his self loathing. This was all he knew, and killing the magister was all he ever thought.

He had practiced the new practice of blood magic a trickle at a time, bending and weaving the flows of energy by using the pools of gore he was tasked of cleaning from the study floor. He was exceptionally gifted in it, but he hated it. He only used the blood from the stone floor, and from his own veins. To use the blood of another, he knew, would make him no better than Antoni. The servants in the castle weren’t kin by blood, but they were the only family he had known for years. None of these poor souls would call him comrade, in fact he was viewed as traitorous by the lot of them for insisting to be the sole assistant to Ser Antoni's twisted experimentation. In all honesty, he couldn't allow any of the others to bear witness to what went on in the study... but they knew, nonetheless. He still wasn't strong enough to resist Antoni. This was the only action he could take to protect them, and he carried the brand of "traitor" on his shoulders with the rest of the burden.

His resistance was never overt, there was no room for error in such close proximity to the magister. There was not a single person who suspected his plans, or that he felt anything but loyalty to his master… or so he thought.

Late one evening, once everyone in the estate were fast asleep in their beds, Mahanon sat at a large wooden table surrounded by books that should have been shelved hours ago. The candles flickered softly, low on their wicks, threatening to go out. He was so engrossed in the text he was poring over that he barely noticed the click of soft heels at the top of the stairs leading into the library. He jumped up with a start and pinched out the candles, burning himself on the melted wax. He froze like a rabbit in the tall grass, cradling his palms together as the wax quickly cooled on his skin. This startled reflex was unnecessary however, as the footsteps came with their own lit candle. His breath caught in his throat. Had he finally been discovered? Would Antoni find him here and force a premature confrontation? He was fairly confident that fighting the magister now would mean his death.

“Boy! You there, apprentice!” the coarse voice whispered harshly into the darkness. It was the cook, her craggy face made even more monstrous in the flickering light of the candle. “There's no use hiding in this Maker forsaken place. I know you're here, as you are every night.” Mahanon swallowed slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing soundlessly in his panicked state. The cook didn't pay his fright much mind, instead dutifully scraping the wax from his burnt candles and replacing them with new ones. “I know what you’re doing in here. How could I not? Who do you think replaces all the candles you use up, night after night?” Her matter-of-factness didn't offer him any comfort, rather her even tone felt like it carried his doom. He momentarily thought of killing her and fleeing, but although there was no love lost between the two, he could sooner kill his own mother than the woman who had been a constant figure of hostile authority from the time he was a young child. She also was among the last to see Quentin alive before he had walked him upstairs into the room in which he would die, his rear end still stinging from her wooden spoon. The shadows danced on her face, turning the rough-hewn features into those of horror. To his dismay, she continued with her diatribe, “I know that you’re in here every night reading these here books of the master's. I know that not one scullery maid has had to clean the blood of her kin off the stones of this library. I know that you haven't had one good night of sleep for over four years hence. Not since the kitchen boy took his final tea tray to the library.” He felt sick. He needed to escape her accusations and her scrutiny in this place of bloodshed. Sweat poured down his neck in rivulets. He looked down at his wax stained hands, and they were trembling.

“Please.” He pleaded to the woman who had never shown mercy in his experience, “You can’t tell. The magister…” Her stern face looked upon him disapprovingly.

“He'll find out soon enough, fool boy. The master is no fool. Once he deigns it time to look down, his eyes will fall upon you.” She said it like announcing a death sentence upon a condemned man. “You won’t get what you’re aiming for by picking up every book that the master drops behind him.”

Mahanon blinked in surprise, what did the cook know? No one in the estate knew his true purpose, or so he had thought. He kept his motivations to himself and only himself, yet this unlikely ally was telling him what he had thought was hidden. As if reading his thoughts, she clicked her tongue in exasperation and continued, “If not for me changing the candles every morn before the master awakens, he would have known your heart long ago. You think you’ve covered your tracks by hiding your papers and shelving the books, but your type always forgets the details. Details that those who have served the estate for as long as I have don’t miss. Now the question remains, how exactly are you to surpass your adversary if all you do is follow one step behind him and learn only what he already knows?”

Mahanon wasn't sure if he was hearing her correctly. “Madame, I am not…” Her keen eye fixated on his. “You need to leave, boy.” Her words stung like a slap. He had lived in the estate since he was a young boy and his gift in magic was discovered. He was not a slave, but nor was he free to leave. He wasn’t sure that he knew any other way. He also knew that the old cook’s words held truth. He had learned the tenets of the blood magic Antoni wielded. He had even learned to do more with less, his goal being to stop the killing, not add to it. There was still more work and research to do, and Mahanon knew that he wouldn’t learn how not to kill and injure under a man who was willing to walk over hundreds of bodies to reach his goal of ultimate power.

He slumped into a chair and stared into his hands, the flakes of dried wax still clung to his palm. The cook’s final words burst his thought like a bubble pricked by a needle, “There is a way. But you have to leave tonight.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4   
Half of what Mahanon had brought with him in his rush to pack a travelling satchel was thrown out when he arrived at the cellar door. He was left with the bare minimum. His staff, a change of clothes, a tinder kit, and a small knife on a belt is all he had on his person when he was shoved into a dusty cart by a disgruntled looking dwarf. He was promised travelling food when they arrived at their destination, right before a bushel of sacks and produce were piled upon his head. A sandy substance ground into his knees making his eyes water and his vision waver. When he realized it was residue from processed lyrium, he tried his best to pad the sides and floor of the cart with the sacks. Even with all his efforts, he felt weak and sick from the exposure and wondered how long he was to be bundled up like this, and if he could make it for an extended period of direct contact. He knew that raw lyrium could kill, and processed was definitely not a health tonic either. His face reddened from the effort not to audibly cough as he was being smuggled from the estate.

He had wondered what avenues the staff had used in order to smuggle their children from the estate, although he tried not to think to deeply on it. The less others knew or even wondered, the better. He did hope that their travels were more comfortable than this.

Mahanon periodically heard voices from outside, muffled by the sacks, and he stayed completely still and quiet as to not be discovered. The cart bumped and bucked, throwing him against the sides. He was certain his body was going to be covered in bruises and scrapes, although none of that would matter if he were discovered. He endured the ride as best as he could. He wondered vaguely where he was being taken. The cook had handed a jingling purse to the dwarf who delivered processed lyrium to the estate for the use of mages and enchanting objects, and that dwarf had in response, bundled Mahanon unceremoniously into the cart in which he had carried the delivery. He thought of the servants’ children, and how they may have disappeared from the estate in much the same fashion.

Where would he go from here? He knew little of the world outside of the estate which had been his home from his tender years, apart from what was seen on aging, moldy map books in the library. The mountainous Anderfels lay to the north, but he knew very little about what lay in wait for him there but snow and the crumbling warden’s stronghold. Trade routes connected to Nevarra by an expansive and well-travelled highway in which he may be able to blend into the crowd and pass unnoticed. Chartering a ship to Antiva City seemed like an attractive option, but among the most dangerous. He couldn’t forget that he was elven in a nation whose population of elves was mostly slaves. Even his own mother was a liberati and expected to show papers when she visited the upper city for supplies. Best he stay mostly hidden until he escaped Tevinter. The cart continued to trundle down the passage, possibly hitting every cobble along the way across the city.

After what seemed like forever, the cart's rumbling stopped and the weight was lifted off the top of his head. He emerged gasping and panting, his face red with exertion. He stumbled out of the cart and began coughing until tears and snot ran down his face, mixing with the dust. He could feel his heartbeat in his chest and neck as he crumpled against a wall struggling to regain his breath, and hopefully his composure. He heard gruff voices, likely dwarven, arguing about the amount demanded for the heightened risk of smuggling a full grown elf as opposed to human children. He paid the squabbling no mind, as breathing was on the top of his list of concerns at the moment.

His coughing slowed, and he felt a cool towel wiping gently at his face. Mahanon looked up into a round, rosy face beaming cheerfully inches from his own. “Well hi-ya!” Her bright eyes wrinkled as the young dwarf's welcoming smile screwed up into a wide grin.

“Welcome to the Vol Dorma outpost! My name is Vulma. I hope you like ale and lichen bread, because we got plenty of both!” Mahanon rubbed his eyes and blinked, looking around. He seemed to be in a darkened storage area.

“Where did you say we were?” he muttered in a cracking voice.

The dwarf's animated tone continued with infuriating vigor. “Well, specifically we're in the receiving area of the lower city merchant storehouses. This is the Vol Dorma outpost, serving all of central Thedas from Minrathous to Orzammar… even though we do have to rely on surfacers because the roads have been unconnected for centuries…” she added that part in an excited whisper, as if she was telling him something scandalous. “…our trade reaches as far as Val Royeaux!” she finished, her eyes shone with pride. “I heard that you’re trying to get out of Vol Dorma without being seen, and we’re just the dwarves to help you do that!” She jammed her thumb excitedly into her own chest and winced, the smile returning immediately to her face.

The other dwarves continued to snipe at each other as Vulma left and returned shortly with a dusty piece of flat, grey bread and a brimming, rough hewn flagon of dark ale. Mahanon took this lull in activity as an opportunity to take in his surroundings. The receiving area was full of incoming goods, much of it produce and textiles from the surface as well as other things that may be difficult to produce below the surface away from the sun. As packed as the storage was, it was not cluttered but neatly organized and each space was exploited in the most productive manner possible. The operation itself belied the benefit of generational knowledge. Mahanon had never actually met a dwarf in person, the only ones who came to Antoni’s estate were couriers and delivery people, and everything he knew about their culture was through history books. His thought was interrupted as Vulma pulled up a box and sat on it, an identical flagon and loaf in her own hands.

“So…” her upbeat demeanor hadn’t shifted from before, “I know I’m not supposed to ask this, but what would cause an apprentice mage to flee his teacher?” Mahanon looked at her and saw that the question carried no hint of judgement, just legitimate curiosity.

He finished his mouthful of bread, the chewy texture giving him time to formulate his thoughts. “The magister is a cruel man, who will stop at nothing to achieve his goal of power.” It was simplistic, but true. Furthermore his answer didn’t reveal the more personal nature of his reason; this unknown dwarf didn’t need to know of Quentin’s torn body or the lifetime of kisses that would never be stolen.

He picked at his bread, as Vulma leaned in with fascinated interest. “Ooh.” Her eyes dilated with eagerness. “Blood magic?”

He nodded. “In a way, yes. But it also may go deeper than that. Many of the unscrupulous use blood magic, but not all of them go through slaves at such a rate. If they did, Tevinter would soon run out, I suppose.” The young dwarf shifted back in her seat, thinking. The look on her face, although no less interested, seemed to realize the full impact of what Mahanon’s simple answer meant for people living in the estate he was escaping.

She continued, a bit more restrained, “You use magic. You’re not a slave.” She said. It was a statement, but it carried an unasked question with it. Mahanon tore his remaining bread in two and took a bite. He chewed carefully while staring at the smooth stone floor between his feet.

He swallowed with difficulty and looked up at Vulma’s questioning face. Her eyes were no less wide in interest, but her demeanor was a bit more subdued than before. His voice cracked, and he took a sip of the strong ale to wet his throat before speaking the words that had echoed in his head for the last four years but had never been spoken aloud,

“I am the one who is going to stop him.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

  
Chapter 5  
The waiting was excruciating. After such a rush to leave the estate, Mahanon sat on the cold floor of the receiving area for long enough that his rear had begun to ache, although he simply sat there contemplating the feeling rather than pulling up a box as Vulma had done. He wondered what was to come next. He hadn’t exactly escaped from Tevinter before, and he had no frame of reference for what the next few hours or days would hold. Vulma’s questions had ceased a little while ago, and she sat with him in silence, every once in awhile getting up when a new delivery arrived to file paperwork and stack the packages in queue. She seemed lost in thought herself after contemplating what was going on in Mahanon’s recently former estate. Several hours seemed to pass in relative silence before a disturbance could be heard through the shaft of the lift. Both Mahanon and Vulma listened intently at the sound of what seemed like men arguing loudly. This seemed different from the squabble between merchants in the loading bay, and the voices raised in pitch and intensity. Mahanon’s eyes met Vulma’s as they both clearly heard the words “elven apprentice” and “Illegal smuggling operation” before the drawing of swords and the stamping of boots as the lift began to creak to life.

“Well shit.” Vulma said, jamming a stick into the exposed gears in the mechanism that ran the lift, “We gotta get you out of here.”

“What is it?” Mahanon whispered harshly, “I thought non-dwarves had no authority in the dwarven quarter?”

Vulma looked him right in the eye, “Oh it’s dwarves alright. Illegal trade is the sole domain of the cartas. They may be casteless, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have clout. Sure, we’ve overstepped in this little operation, but that isn’t usually a problem as long as we aren’t taking business away from them. You must have pissed off some people in high places, for them to be showing up here in this pissant little depot.”

She began pushing him in the direction opposite the lift. “We’d better get you out of here.” He looked around with the sudden realization that he didn’t see any windows to jump out of and flee. Of course, there was no windows; they were Maker knows how many feet underground. He snatched up his satchel as he was being hurried out of the room and into a long hallway that was dark and dusty from disuse.

“Where are you taking me? Is there a way out from here?” Mahanon clutched his belongings to his chest, suddenly fearful. All he knew of the carta was that they were a ruthless criminal organization that operated across all Thedas. “Why are they after me?”

Vulma chuckled, “Had I known that danger was the only way to get you talking, I would have told you that this was risky a long time ago!” She continued shoving him down the hall. “The carta is all about business, and the business of smuggling slaves out of Tevinter is big money. You’re no slave, you’re a full-grown mage, and privy to the secrets of a magister as well. Someone must have reported you missing, and someone else was interested enough to be willing to get the carta involved.” She snorted at the thought. “But don’t worry! We have an alternate way out for just this type of situation!” Her cheerfulness obviously wasn’t shaken by this turn of events. If anything, the added adventure made her even more chipper.

The tunnel they were now jogging down twisted and turned, but never forked. It was a long hall with no other paths but forward. That was the reason that Mahanon noticed the old, boarded door they passed in their run to the other end. It was firmly sealed, and looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in ages. “What is that way?” He panted, as they rushed past it and it disappeared into the darkness behind them. He could have sworn he felt Vulma shudder behind him. “That’s one of the tunnels to the deep roads connecting the depot to Kal-Sharok. It isn’t clear and might not even connected any more. We’ve sealed it up against demons.” They continued on down the hall towards their only escape route.

“When we reach this shaft, you’re going to use the lift there to reach the surface. Its not ideal, because you’ll come up within the walls of Vol Dorma, but at least you wont be caught and ransomed back to your old master.” She gave a sympathetic shrug. “You’re smart. I’m sure you’ll figure something out. If you can get to the highway, I would head south towards Nevarra. They don’t honor Tevinter slave holdings.” Her prattle of conversation died on her lips when she heard a different confrontation further up ahead in the direction of what was supposed to be their escape route. They both stopped cold in the darkened passage, the only sounds were the rasping air trying to catch in their chests as they stopped running to listen to what lay ahead of them. There came yelling back and forth, then the sound of swords being drawn from sheaths and the passageway filled with the sounds of weapons clashing and men shouting.

Now Vulma was truly stopped in her tracks. Her eyes flitted back and forth as she muttered “shit.. shit.. shit..” under her breath. Not only was their escape blocked, but it sounded like killing was happening in the only way out. At her first actual sign of panic, Mahanon knew that there was a serious chance of both of them being caught and killed. He grabbed her by the sleeve and started running back the way they had come.

“We can’t go that way, they’re likely almost on our tail from that direction… and if they’re killing merchants…” Her face was openly showing the fear that both of them were experiencing. Mahanon didn’t say anything until they reached the door they had just passed. He dropped Vulma’s arm and began pulling on the boards. They were firmly bolted and weren’t about to budge against the weak tugging of a skinny boy who never made it out of the library. Vulma grabbed his arm as her eyes bulged in panic.

“We can’t go down there either! Those tunnels are filled with darkspawn, we’ll likely be killed before we passed a city block!” She desperately tugged at his sleeve.

“From the sounds of things, we’ll definitely be killed if we stay right here.” He stepped back from the door and drew his knife from his belt. Lifting his sleeve, he drew the blade across his scarred forearm until a trickle of blood welled up and trickled down. He closed his eyes in a moment of concentration and used the power of his dripping blood to pull the boards from the door. The bolts popping loudly from the strain, the sound echoing with frightening volume down the hall. The barrier removed, he swung open the door, revealing an even deeper, darker passage than the one they stood in. Mahanon grabbed the dwarf and moved her bodily through the dusty doorway. He then used the residual magic he was holding in his fists to pull the door and boards back together, hopefully to hide the evidence of their passage… at least if their pursuers didn’t look too closely.  
  
For a moment, the two of them leaned against the wall, panting. Vulma looked at Mahanon, still fearful but no longer panicked.

“Blood magic, huh?” Mahanon nodded slowly, and his dimunitive companion returned the nod in response.

“Well, this day has certainly gotten way more exciting than originally expected.” She said simply.  
  
With that, the two of them headed down the darkened passage, into the Deep Roads.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

  
They had walked for quite some distance. The dust from the unused passages puffed silently under their feet as they trudged through the darkness. The terror that the two odd companions had first felt when entering the Deep Roads faded slightly as they continued on without incident, although Vulma squeaked and jumped at every sound that echoed down the twisting corridors. She benefitted from a lifelong training of unease with the Deep Roads that Mahanon simply didn’t have. His only knowledge of the Deep Roads was through the tales and legends and old texts of history from Antoni’s library. The peril they were in wasn’t exactly real to him yet. Although he knew of the dangers on an intellectual level, he had never known anyone who had ventured into the Deep Roads, and therefore had no real concept of the actual danger they faced.

  
He quickly realized how lucky he was to have her with him down here, as the tunnels were not straight and unbranching like the escape tunnel in the stockroom, but winded and forked every several feet. She would lead them straight for a mile or so and suddenly turn left or right down a path he had barely noticed. Vulma expertly chose their path as if by instinct and the duo plodded steadily ahead, speaking little.

  
Judging by the time they had spent walking, Mahanon determined that they had now travelled several miles. There was no way for him to tell in which direction, or whether it was day or night.

  
“Um… Vulma, right?” he winced at the sound of his own voice as it echoed off the narrow walls, “Where exactly are we heading?”

  
Vulma put her fingers to her lips in a shushing gesture. “Well, see… that’s the thing. None of these old roads are reliably connected any more. Before the first blight, dwarven roads ran the entire length of Thedas, connecting all the thaigs like the Imperial Highway… only going every possible direction. Also, you know, underground.” Her voice was low and gruff from the dusty air and a little fearful but restrained. “After the first blight, and most of the thaigs fell, the Deep Roads filled with darkspawn and haven’t been used by anyone but suicidal wardens ever since.”

  
Mahanon coughed out a low laugh, “Suicidal wardens, you say?”

  
“When a warden has had enough of being a warden, they come down here and fight darkspawn until they die.” She answered plainly. Mahanon shuddered. From what little he knew, wardens were heroes. They fought darkspawn for a living. He could barely comprehend the number of darkspawn that could manage to kill an actual breathing legend.

  
“So, if the Deep Roads are so dangerous… how is it that we haven’t run across any darkspawn at all?” His question was answered by Vulma throwing her hand across his mouth and shoving him roughly into the wall. He shut his mouth like a steel trap, his teeth clicked hard on his tongue enough to make his eyes water from the sharp and sudden pain. They flattened their bodies against the roughhewn wall of the passage. The two of them silently craned their necks to peer around a corner where they could see light flickering against the wall of a deep passage. In the silence, they could hear the rhythmic clinking of metal and the far-off cackling of maniacal laughter. Vulma repeated her shushing motion and they crept off in the direction away from whatever that was down the hall.

  
They walked in near silence for hours, stopping periodically for sips of water from Mahanon’s travelling pack. He wondered vaguely what would happen once it ran out. Finally, they slipped down a passage that led to a dead end, hidden behind a rocky cave-in. Vulma slid Mahanon’s satchel off her shoulder and sat down with her back against the far wall.

  
“What are we doing?” Mahanon asked with weary curiosity.

  
“We rest here.” Vulma explained. “It’s midnight. We’ve been walking for almost a full day. We need rest, and this is probably the safest place to do it.” Mahanon nodded, and took the waterskin from his pack, tipping it momentarily against his dusty lips. They hunkered down in the nook behind the fallen rocks. Vulma curled up and was snoring softly within moments. He laid head to head with her, his pack as a makeshift pillow against the hard stone and prepared to wait out the night.

  
Mahanon lay awake, as he did most nights, staring into the darkness. He tried as hard as he could to sleep, reminding himself that there was a long journey ahead, but to no avail. Quentin’s smiling face permeated his thoughts. His face was so bright and gleeful, that the contrast to this dark, gloomy place was almost unbearable. He turned over to try to get more comfortable, and to shake the image from his mind. Mahanon closed his eyes tightly, and behind his lids the breeze tousled his dead lover’s hair and the sunlight through the new spring leaves dappled his face. _“Kiss me.”_ Quentin’s lips mouthed soundlessly, as he danced carelessly in the afternoon sun. The more Mahanon tried to push the thought away, the more the boy invaded every corner of his memory and imagination. Suddenly he was there with him, in his own dream, propping himself up on his elbow as he watched Quentin spin with his arms outspread. He felt the dream-Mahanon’s shoulders shake as he laughed at the boy’s antics. He reached up and his fingertips brushed against the wildflowers Quentin had crowned him with during his romp through the grass. The sun warmed his back and he smiled indulgently as Quentin finally got dizzy from all the spinning and toppled over across his legs. _“Kiss me, lover.”_ Mahanon gazed down into Quentin’s eyes, squinting from looking up at the sky. They were the warm color of honey and shone with life and sun-tears. He leaned over to touch his soft lips with his own, kissing through Quentin’s giggles as Mahanon’s crown of blossoms fell to pieces and rained down on his chest. _“Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Ki..”_ Mahanon opened his eyes to drink in all of Quentin’s masculine beauty, the tenacity of his youth. Instead, what met him when he opened his eyes was the staring lifeless eyes from on the magister’s table in the library. He grabbed Quentin’s shoulders reflexively, and felt not soft flesh, but creaking bone. He began to wail, rocking back and forth with the corpse of his lover in his arms. A sound rose higher than dream-Mahanon’s cries. It was the croaking voice of the dead. Quentin’s corpse spilled thick blood from the stiff lips pulled back from his teeth in an eternal grimace, and it poured slowly down the taut paper thin skin covering his chin and onto Mahanon’s lap as he chanted, _“Kiss me, lover! Yes! Just one last kiss! Kiss me! Kiss me!”_ The horror enveloped Mahanon as he felt himself clutch at Quentin’s stiff, cold body and lean over to touch his lips to the icy mouth of his dead lover. He tasted blood.

  
He awoke with a start. His robes were soaked with sweat, but he was shivering cold. The moisture felt disconcertingly like blood. He panted heavily, trying to get ahold of himself. Rubbing his arms to shake the chilling feeling of his dream, he listened to the sounds of the darkened chamber. Vulma’s steady breathing continued on, as predictable as the ticking of a clock, but there was another sound coming from the darkness. Mahanon craned his neck and listened closely. It was definitely the sound of something moving, and it was close. He laid his hand on Vulma’s shoulder as to not startle her awake. He heard her rhythmic breathing stop, and he knew that she had awoken and had heard the sound as well. The sound, a dragging, scraping noise, was coming slowly up the path to where they lay huddled in the corner. Vulma slowly pulled herself to her feet and drew her belt knife. Mahanon followed suit, brandishing his staff in front of him. They both stood silently at the ready for what fresh horrors this impregnable darkness would bring.

 


	7. Chapter 7

** Chapter 7 **

Mahanon and Vulma stood with their backs toward the tunnel wall as it, whatever it was, shuffled closer towards them from the darkness. They held their collective breath as the first shadow of the creature appeared from around the rock pile. First, one twisted leg, hairy and repulsive. It seemed to take one step with the leg and drag the rest of a yet unseen bulk behind it. With a gesture, Mahanon illuminated his staff, realizing that this subterranean creature would have the advantage in the low light. Finally, they could see the true horror of what lay in the passage before them, blocking their only chance of escape. 

It was a giant spider, as big as a  mabari , reared up the best it could and let out a hissing chitter that echoed down the corridor. The spider’s hulking body revealed why the creature was moving so slowly and haltingly. There was an axe buried in its center, effectively paralyzing the back half of its body. Mahanon could see clots of dried and drying blood and puss seeping from the wound, clumping the piles of rancid hair that covered the spider’s hideous body. The dried brown blood covering the creature’s mandibles told him that the attack that had crippled the creature had not been enough to save the life of whomever had wielded the axe. His eyes met the shiny, dead eyes of the beast, and he shuddered. With a strangled yelp, he choked his magic energy to the surface and a jet of fire belched from the tip of his staff, engulfing the spider in flame. 

The spider squealed in response with its  high pitched  jabbering sound, reared up again, and shot a glob of sticky fiber onto Mahanon’s chest and arm. “Ugh!” he exclaimed loudly, as he struggled to free his forearm from the tangled mass of strings. 

“Great.” Vulma said flatly, “…not only is this the grossest deep crawler I have ever seen, now  its  on fire too.”

“Well, if you have any better ideas, I’d love to hear them!” he snipped back, still struggling to pull his arm away from his chest, the long fibers binding him more effectively than he thought possible.

“Do your blood thing!” she shouted harshly, brandishing her belt knife at the drooling, chittering spider.

He gestured with his staff at his incapacitated side, “Typically, that requires more than one hand!” He knew he had to do something. They didn’t come this far just to die in an uncharted tunnel at the hands… err legs of a crippled, monstrous house-pest. He concentrated his energy through the focusing tip of his staff and sent a bolt of electricity at the hissing spider. It struck the beast with a loud zap and a puff of ozone, and the spider flipped on its back smoking. Its claw tipped legs grasping at anything and reaching only sky. Its chittering increased in volume.

“Shit. I think you made it mad.” Vulma said, trying to yank Mahanon’s arm away from his side. “You’re stuck fast. What do you need your other hand for? You look like you can cast spells just fine.”

The spider’s few working legs finally gripped the rough outcropping of rock and pulled itself back upright. Vulma appeared to be correct in her assumption that it was now as mad as a wet cat. 

“The whole point of blood magic, is that you need blood to cast it.” He struggled against the webbing and grunted, “ It’s  sort of right there in the name.” Vulma quit tugging at his arm and simply stopped with an odd look on her face. 

“Oh.”  She said, emotionlessly.  Then, before he could stop her, she drew her belt knife across her wrist. Blood welled up almost immediately as she held her arm up in front of his face. Rivulets of crimson already flowing down her forearm and dripping from the crook of her elbow.

“Maker take you!” he growled, caught completely off guard by the cold lack of hesitation in her act. He had never used the blood of a healthy, living person aside from himself for his magic. It was one of the things he avoided at all costs to avoid becoming just like the magister he had vowed to destroy. The deed was already done however, and it would be foolishness to waste it. With a sharp intake of breath, he concentrated and drew the energy from the blood, pulsing out of the dwarf’s veins. The power was stronger, more virile than he was accustomed to.  He struggled to hold it, like the reins of a feral animal.   She gasped a bit, and he wondered if she could feel anything, being a child of the stone and cut completely off from the Fade. The threads of power crawled at his beckon and focused at the tip of his staff. With his exhaled breath, those threads shot towards the spider, now advancing menacingly on the duo.  It froze immediately in its tracks. If a spider could have a bewildered expression, this one  definitely would  have.

For a split moment, silence fell upon the corridor . Then  suddenly the spider’s blood began to boil and foam out of its eyes, mouth, and multiple wounds. The crust of the puss and blood around the axe cracked and a new flow of curdled ichor began to jet from around the pierced exoskeleton of the creature. Its body bulged and moved, as if its insides throbbed with a life of their own. Suddenly with a loud crack, the body of the monster exploded, raining goo and bodily fluids down on them with warm wetness.

Vulma let out a disgusted, wordless wail as she used her hands to wipe the muck from her eyes. Mahanon stood there, as shocked as she was, repeating “Sorry... I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” He looked down at her sheepishly, “I had only read about that spell, I didn’t know it was going to do  _ that. _ ” 

“I have never in my life wished illiteracy on a person before now.” Vulma said flatly, attempting to shake the strings of goopy spider fluids  off of  her hands. “But I guess this is a whole day of firsts.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 

The two companions wiped up the best they could, Vulma grabbing the axe that had been buried in between the eyes of the dead spider, and Mahanon changed into his spare outfit. Packing up and beginning to move on, they suddenly heard a clamor echoing down the passages. Vulma and Mahanon both locked eyes.

“It looks like we may be getting more company soon.” The dwarf stated quite plainly, even though the look on her face was a bit concerned, “Tussling with this spider may have caught the attention of less savory visitors.”

“Less savory than that?” Mahanon gestured at the crumpled body of the giant spider, the greenish blood now coagulating into putrid lumps that stuck to the walls of the small enclave. She shrugged, “Giant spiders are just an occupational hazard. The real danger of the Deep Roads are the actual darkspawn. To be honest, I don’t know if we could survive even a small unit of them if we ran into any.” He nodded grimly and they hurried away from the area and the noise that appeared to be getting closer.

            They walked for an hour or so, the sounds of footsteps still coming from some unknown direction, although they were fairly certain that they were heading away from the source. Mahanon worried that they might tire before their pursuers. If the unit of darkspawn found the corpse of the spider, they would know that there was prey wandering somewhere in these corridors. He had no real experience but had read of darkspawn and the Deep Roads. From what he recalled of the old tales, darkspawn did not tire, and were relentless once they caught the scent of unwary travelers. Time passed and still they trudged on.

            As the day (at least Mahanon thought it was day, there was no way for him to tell) continued, they were never too far from the sounds of the darkspawn not far behind. They hurried their step, hoping to outpace what sounded like a decently sized regiment. If they faltered or slowed, it became quite evident that they would not make it out of the Deep Roads. Vulma was silent, although he saw her jaw clenched and wondered how dire their situation was. She had shown time and again that her proficiency underground was exceptional, at least in comparison to his complete lack of knowledge. To see her so obviously worried concerned him greatly. He also came to the cold realization that they could not maintain this pace indefinitely and wondered what would happen when fatigue overtook them. The noise made by the advancing horde permeated every thought.

            Vulma had indicated that they were heading towards the border between the Anderfels and Nevarra, far out of the reach of the Imperial law and capture by his former mentor. As the crow flies, a journey of that magnitude would take a week or more, and their path had cut crookedly through the stone like a coiled snake. They were well into either their second or third day of walking, and that would not be enough to bring them even halfway to their goal. Several more hours of forced marching passed, and Mahanon’s legs were aching, the overarching din of hideous footsteps in pursuit were no further away than when they had begun. If anything, they were louder and closer than ever before. When he looked at Vulma, he could see the white of her eyes showing in near panic and an ever-present twitch in her clenching jaw. Neither of them had said a word for hours. It was becoming apparent that they had no hopes of outrunning the darkspawn that were dogging their trail, and they would be exhausted by the time they were forced to turn and fight.

            “Vulma.” Mahanon spoke, his voice cracking from the dust and disuse. “We can’t go on like this much further. Her only response was a grunt. “I am serious. We need to turn and ready ourselves for a fight.” Her tense and focused demeanor was such a change from her cheery wit, he found himself feeling close to the edge.

She finally spoke, “There are between ten and fifteen darkspawn behind us, likely being led by a more powerful creature… seeing how organized they are in following. There is no way that we could do anything but die and get eaten if we stopped now.” Mahanon started to make mutters of protest when they turned a corner and Vulma stopped in her tracks, panting heavily, “Here. We’re here.” She stopped so suddenly, he nearly tripped over her.

“Here?” he inquired dully, “In Nevarra?”

She snorted, “Of course not, but there’s an exit to the surface right here that should let you out about a mile from the highway. You should be able to reach Nevarra in about five days if you can avoid the Imperial guard on the road.”

Seeing the ancient door to the surface looming before them caused a rush of relief to wash so powerfully over Mahanon that he could feel his cheeks flush from feeling. Their escape laid directly in front of them, but just as quickly his blood suddenly ran cold. “What do you mean me? Aren’t you coming with me? You can’t stay down here, you’ll die!” He turned back toward her in sudden shock.

Her head hung low, her wispy bangs covered her face. Mahanon could see that she was trembling. Vulma raised her head to finally meet his eye, her own were brimming over with frightened tears. “I can’t, Mahanon. I can’t come with you. To glimpse the sky would mean the loss of my caste. If I come with you, I lose all my status. I lose my family name. Any record of me would be stricken from my family records. I just can’t do it. I can’t come with you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

     Mahanon stared at Vulma, his mouth agape. “No! That can’t be! You’d rather die for some archaic dwarven custom?” Her eyes flashed with sudden anger, “I was born with centuries of duty and tradition at my back, _elf!_ My great grandmother was considered for Paragon for developing new methods of profiting from trade with surfacers without abandoning the Stone! Can you say the same?” Mahanon’s face fell, suddenly realizing his shame. “I’m sorry Vulma, I just can’t fathom leaving you to the mercy of these beasts.” She reached up and grasped his hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean those things I said to you.” Looking down at her, Mahanon saw the fear in her eyes, but also a hard, resolute indomitability. She knew she was going to die here and was choosing to face the certainty of her death instead of the ambiguity of the sky. The look on her face sparked a hard flint in his own heart, he realized that he would not abandon her to this fate. She was his friend; the first one he’d had since Quentin’s bloody death, and he would not fail a second time.

     Mahanon’s eyes flashed as he set his stance, both white knuckled hands grasped the staff he held before him, the base firmly planted in the dusty floor of this rocky tunnel. “Then we shall fight them together.” Now it was Vulma’s turn to gawp like a fish. She had not expected her companion to abandon the idea of escape to fight an unknown foe who would likely slaughter them both where they stood. “We aren’t ready for this! We don’t have the skill or the power to defeat them!” she looked up at him, but his wide, green eyes had gone cold and unyielding as steel as he stared down the passage into the darkness that undoubtably contained their deaths. She steadied her shaking hands on her axe.

      Silence fell in the chamber, and for a moment the only sounds were that of their ragged breathing. Mahanon imagined that he could hear the beating of his own heart. He tightened his grip around his staff, hearing the grit grinding as the base dug into the floor. He couldn’t die here, not if he wanted to watch the blood drained from Master Antoni as he had done to his lover, Quentin. He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to the Maker, and any ancient, forgotten elven gods that might be charitable enough to be listening. As they both breathed and prayed, the clamoring sound of the darkspawn following their scent echoed up the tunnel passage, getting closer to where the elf and the dwarf stood, backs to the dilapidated ladder that spelled both freedom and doom. Mahanon unwound the bloody bandaging that covered his scarred forearms in preparation to battle using his own lifeblood.

     The sounds were even closer now, accompanied by the shrill shrieking of the horrors staggering up the corridors towards them. As they crested the bend in the path, Mahanon was taken aback by how grotesque the creatures were. In the dim light, their terrible faces appeared to be twisted into a sadistic grinning scream. Their skin was mottled and pitted, as if they were rotting while still alive, and the noise they made was the sound of nightmares. Mahanon’s bowels turned to water as he watched them flow from the passageway like a flood of rats fleeing a doomed mine. Without hesitation, or a glimmer of the deep fear he felt in his bones, he deftly plucked the dagger from his belt and dragged it across his forearm, a thick trail of blood welling up and then flowing from his wound. The smell of blood seemed to drive the darkspawn into a frenzy, and the clamor in the narrow tunnel reached an almost unbearable volume. As the stream of crimson blood ran down his arm and dripped from the crook in his elbow, Mahanon raised both of his arms in the air and spoke a single word, _“tempestatis.”_ When he brought both hands down in a violent throwing motion, the blood spray from his self-inflicted injury spun in a dizzying scarlet cyclone, each droplet that struck a darkspawn hit them with the force of a crossbow bolt, tearing at their fetid flesh. As they fell, more simply trod on their corpses to reach the pair trembling together at the end of the hall. Mahanon lowered his hand, allowing the freely flowing blood to drip into his palm. He raised his hand to face the darkspawn and then clenched his fist, squeezing droplets out from between his fingers. With a husky voice he whispered, _“procursus,”_ and the darkspawn closest to him tilted its head as if trying to understand the funny feeling he had in his gut. As Mahanon flung his hand open, the beast exploded, and everywhere its blackened blood fell burst into flame, darkspawn and corridor alike. The narrow passage was filled with choking smoke, fallen darkspawn, and the screams of the injured, but still they marched forward.

     Vulma choked her hands up on the haft of her axe and gave out a high pitched yelp he supposed was a battle cry as she charged into the fray. Her first strike bit deep into the skull of one of the advancing horde. She yanked it out, a mist of blood painting her face. She moved on to the next one with an expressionless grimace of effort. The muscles, built from years of hauling pallets of goods in and out from guild headquarters, bulged under her sleeves as she hacked her way through the front lines. With Vulma in the way, Mahanon didn’t dare use any spells near where she stood, boots placed at shoulder width, swinging her axe like a miner’s pick. He instead chose an area on the other side of the passage. He leaned his staff against his shoulder and raised his right hand up high above his head and then drove it down into his open wound, his fingers curled like claws as he tore his own flesh open. Sweat trickled down his face, lightly spattered with blood, burning at the corners of his eyes. He breathed the word out like a caress, _“concussio.”_ Along the left wall, a gaping chasm trembled and opened like a toothy mouth, hungry for death. Darkspawn tumbled into its depths, their shrieks echoing through the corridor. The far wall, its foundation removed, began to crack and erode, and large chunks fell in after the twisting bodies of the creatures. A large crack began to travel across the craggy ceiling of the cave, Mahanon’s eyes grew large as he heard the popping sound of the supporting stones giving way. Vulma’s head shot up, as she felt the integrity of the entire structure begin to fail. She knew in some deeper part of herself that she was about to be buried by tons of falling rock. One of the darkspawn, seemingly unfazed by the impending cave-in, took this moment of distraction to lunge at the dwarf. His curved sword of some dark accursed metal raised above his head to strike down upon Vulma’s bare head.

     Mahanon knew he only had a single moment to act, so he raised his hand like a chef adding a final flourish to a signature dish, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and set off a sudden, percussive wave between the two combatants. The blast drove both of them back from the point of impact, the darkspawn into the collapsing hallway, and Vulma back away from the cracking ground and advancing mob. She landed on her back and skidded a little bit before coming to rest in a motionless heap. The rest of the darkspawn disappeared under a shower of boulders and dust. Mahanon fell to his knees, his body bleeding and spent. Using the last of his strength, he dragged himself to where Vulma’s body lay. There he collapsed as silence fell over the darkened passage.


End file.
